


The Prince and the Rogue

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Female Hawke/Isabela implied, I'm slightly horrified at myself, M/M, is this the first ever Sebastian and Varric fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: "Varric thinks Sebastian is boring, a veritable snoozefest. Sebastian sets to prove him wrong." Or: Sebastian gets very drunk and makes some very interesting decisions. Or: Isabela writes some new friend-fiction. (Pure, unrepentant, crack-y porn. Maker help me, for I have sinned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and the Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably note that I've never written m/m fic before. I've also never written for Varric before. Or Sebastian (I've never even done a playthrough with Sebastian!). This may be a total disaster but this prompt was too weird and intriguing to pass up. My apologies to these poor characters. In my defense, this is allll Isabela's fault.

“Just give it a chance!”

“Listen, Rivaini, I'm not really sure I want to—”

“I promise, it's a good one.”

“Fine, fine. Stop jabbering in my ear and pass it over here.”

*

“And so—no shit—Choir Boy here looks her dead in the eyes, bows, and says, 'How may I be of service, Madam?'”

The table erupts into raucous laughter: Anders snickers with more than a hint of malice; Fenris lets out an uncharacteristic low, long chuckle; and even Merrill giggles politely, though the joke appears to have gone over her head. (Hawke, tipsy and flushed, bites back her laughter and tries to take advantage of the distraction to slide her hands up Isabela's skirt without anyone noticing. Sebastian notices, though, and he can feel the blood rush to his cheeks.) But worst of all is Varric—his glinting, satisfied smirk, the spark in his eyes when he meets Sebastian's accusing gaze across the table.

It's not that he dislikes Varric, not really, and it's not that he genuinely believes that Varric dislikes him—they get along perfectly well when their paths cross. Varric is a touch coarse, perhaps, but everyone agrees that he's a loyal friend. All things considered, Sebastian isn't sure if he has the right to complain about the teasing. After all, it's meant to be good-natured, as everyone has reminded him so many times. And yet—it stings nonetheless. But there's nothing Sebastian can do but grin and bear it, seething all the while. He makes an easy target for Varric's trademark ribbing, and every night, after one drink too many, the dwarf's mocking gaze settles on him.

“So,” he'll say, amber eyes bright, “how goes it tonight, O noble Prince Vael? Deigning to drink with the commonfolk, I see.” Or perhaps he'll take a swig of ale and lift his mug in a toast: “Rescue any cute little kittens today? Save any fair maidens? Rub one out to a portrait of Andraste?”

The punchline is always the same: _Sebastian is so damn boring. Rigid, uptight, boring Sebastian. Choir Boy. Boring boring boring._ His stomach twists and his chest tightens with every barbed jest. It's not fair. It's just not fair.

Tonight, he can't take it any longer. When the final game of Diamondback winds down—long after Merrill and Bethany have left, even after Fenris has finally called it a night—he doesn't budge from his seat. Anders is face-down on the table, snoring gently; Isabela is straddling Hawke now, mouth on her neck. Only Varric is still paying any attention to him.

Sebastian tears his eyes away from Hawke and Isabela (the familiar words echo in his head, pounding, aching— _blessed are they who stand before/the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter),_ licks his dry lips, and focuses on Varric. The dwarf opens his mouth, another jest clearly on the tip of his tongue, but Sebastian cuts him off.

“I would rather not hear whatever it is that you are about to say. I am tired of being a target for your mockery.” He tries desperately to remain cool and collected, but Varric smiles that taunting smile, and Sebastian can't help the petulant edge that creeps into his voice: “I am not  _boring_ , no matter what you may think.”

Varric snorts and flips a coin between his fingers. “You, not boring? That's rich, coming from the man who hasn't touched his drink all night.”

Splashes of anger darken Sebastian's cheeks. “Just because I choose to rarely partake—I will have you know that I could drink you under the table any day.”

At that, Varric laughs, a heavy rumble that rattles Sebastian down to his bones. “Yeah? Why don't you prove it, Choir Boy?”

“Perhaps I shall,” he snaps. Impulsively, he grabs a passing barmaid by the arm. “Get us the strongest brew you have, as much of it as you can carry.”

“I'm not supposed to bring any more to this table,” the girl says, casting an uncertain glance at the bartender behind her. “Corff told me you still owe him for last night. And the night before. And the night before that.”

Sebastian hesitates; Varric takes action. He leans over and grabs two gold sovereigns off the top of Isabela's precariously-tall stack of Diamondback winnings, flipping them to the barmaid in one smooth motion. (Isabela is too focused on Hawke, head thrown back, moaning softly beneath her, to notice. Sebastian tries and fails to catch his breath.) The girl catches the coins and clutches them to her chest, as if the gold is an unfamiliar sight.

“Now we're more than even, sweetheart. Bring it straight to my room, and we'll clear out and let you clear up,” Varric says, his voice an easy, disarming drawl. The girl blushes and nods. Varric aims a grin at Sebastian—a challenge. Sebastian swallows hard and nods his agreement.

Tonight is for action; tomorrow is for repenting.

By the time they make it upstairs—after helping a dazed Anders stumble out the door—there's a tray waiting on Varric's end table: Several pitchers of suspiciously-cloudy liquid, two tall mugs, and a bill scrawled in angry red letters. Apparently Varric owed Corff more than he thought.

He eyes Varric's room, taking in the details of the unfamiliar space. Unsurprisingly, Bianca occupies a spot of honor; she gleams in the dim candlelight, well-polished and lovely. His bed is made, albeit sloppily—the sheets are bunched up and wrinkled, edges roughly tucked under the mattress, and Sebastian's fingers itch with the need to straighten everything. Sheets of paper are scattered all across the floor, some balled up and some barely crinkled. The draft of a new book, Sebastian supposes. He considers asking what it's about and then he thinks better of it.

Varric interrupts his thoughts with a cough. When Sebastian jerks to look at him, Varric grins and gestures to one full mug. “Bottoms up, Choir Boy.”

Sebastian tenses in instinctive suspicion. “Are you not going to drink?”

“Aw, c'mon, let's play fair—I'm halfway to plastered already.” Varric stretches and shrugs. He plops onto the edge of his bed and starts to leisurely kick off his boots.

“You're just going to...to watch me?”

Varric shoots him that familiar grin, the one that says _I'm drunker than you think I am._ “Why not? You're not half bad to watch.”

All of a sudden the room feels small and hot, overcrowded. Sebastian presses his lips tight together and tries to collect himself. But perhaps—perhaps the drink will help. The thought settles him, slows his racing heart. So he lifts his glass high. “Here's to proving you wrong.”

“Shut up and drink, Choir Boy.”

After years of self-imposed sobriety, the alcohol hits him like a bolt to the back of the skull. Once upon a time, Sebastian could hold his own even with the most devoted of drunkards—and emerge with hardly a headache the next day. But now, though—by the time he sets down his empty mug, his head is spinning.

“Not a bad start,” Varric allows. This time, he fills both mugs, and he lifts his own in a toast. “Here's to you being boring as shit and me being interesting enough for the both of us.”

Sebastian takes a long swig of the drink and tries not to pay too much attention to Varric, who continues to watch him with those molten-gold eyes. But the task is all but impossible. The alcohol heightens his senses, his awareness of the hot, cramped room. A triangle of Varric's chest peeks out from beneath his shirt, dimly glistening with a sheen of sweat; Sebastian can feel a drop of sweat beading at his own brow, and he tries to force his gaze away from the hard lines of Varric's chest. He feels agonizingly claustrophobic—desperately aware of every single motion Varric makes.

It would be a lie if he said he had never looked at Varric and let his imagination run wild. Varric has that sort of effect on everyone—that easy charm, that disarming grace—and more than once, Sebastian has admired him from afar, be it in the heat of battle or merely across a crowded street. That rugged jaw and that roguish grin...those arms, well-muscled like only an archer's can be...his broad shoulders, wide chest, tapering into slim hips and those thick, powerful thighs, always straining in his leather breeches, _straining_...

—but Maker save him, he cannot think such things. He must not dare. Sebastian's lips move in silent prayer.

Varric fiddles with one of the heavy gold rings on his left hand. Sebastian watches his fingers move—easier than meeting his eyes—and focuses on the details, the heavy callouses on his fingertips, the grace with which those strong hands flex. His mouth has gone dry without his realizing it; he takes a deep breath and finishes the rest of his second drink in one quick gulp. _Blessed are they who—blessed are they—_

A bang against the wall suddenly jerks him back to the present—one heavy crash followed by a sharp cry, familiar and unfathomable all at once: “Ah—fuck, _fuck,_ Bela—”

“Rivaini and I share a very thin wall,” Varric says, a supremely unnecessary explanation. He shrugs, as if the racket from the other room doesn't bother him in the slightest. “Makes for interesting nights.”

“I would...” Sebastian clears his throat. “Yes, I would imagine so.”

As if on cue, Hawke cries out again, sharp and eager. Sebastian can feel the blood drain from his face. He can almost picture her for the briefest of moments, head thrown back, legs spread, the gentle jut of her collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts—and then the image shifts to Varric, hair down and tangled, muscles straining— _blessed are they who stand before—_

Varric coughs to catch his attention. “Are you feelin' okay? You look a little queasy. If you're going to vomit, do it out the window.”

Sebastian shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “What? No, I—yes, I'm fine. Another drink, please.” He sends up a desperate prayer that Varric doesn't notice his cock, hard and tight against his trousers.

As if he could get that lucky. When Varric starts grinning, Sebastian's heart sinks in his chest.

“Having a good time, Choir Boy?” Varric asks, his speech only slightly blurred by the alcohol. He waggles his eyebrows and points between Sebastian's legs, as if the innuendo wasn't obvious enough. “Let me guess who you're thinking about this time. Is it Hawke or Andraste?”

Sebastian starts to stammer out an explanation or an apology. And then he thinks: _I'm not boring. I'm not. I won't let him mock me any longer._ Too dazed to consider the consequences of his actions for even half a second, Sebastian opens his mouth and blurts it out: “You.”

Varric starts to laugh. And then Sebastian's answer finally reaches his ears. “Wait. Shit. Me?”

“You,” Sebastian repeats, and the truth of it leaves him aching.

Varric scratches the back of his head, and then a light sparks in his eyes. He rubs his jaw and looks Sebastian over from head to toe with a slow consideration that leaves him shivering. “You're not half as boring as I thought you were.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Sebastian says. His voice cracks and he can feel himself flush.

“Well,” Varric says, voice calculating and thoughtful, “why don't you prove it once and for all?” With one hand, he plays with the laces of his breeches; Sebastian tries very, very hard not to breathe.

“How?”

“Oh, I don't know...you could suck my cock.” He speaks casually, with just enough of an edge to send sparks down Sebastian's back.

“Please,” Sebastian breathes. Varric laughs, sets aside his drink, and beckons him over.

They are both too caught up in a haze of lust and intoxication to delay; they do not bother with any intricate game of foreplay. It happens in slow motion: Sebastian undoes his belt, sets it aside (he cannot quite bear to have Andraste's face on him in that moment), drops to his knees at the side of the bed—like he's about to pray, about to beg for absolution; the image twists his stomach in a knot, but he pushes the thought aside—and loops his trembling fingers through the laces of Varric's breeches.

“Don't be shy,” Varric whispers, sounding impatient but strangely reverent, and Sebastian lets himself remember the man he used to be. He pulls Varric's pants down inch by inch until they bunch around his ankles, and then he tangles his fingers in his smallclothes and tugs them down.

His breath catches in his throat. Varric's cock is more than he had imagined, even in the dark depths of his most private fantasies: Thick and gorgeous and hard already. Sebastian moans with want—and Varric takes the opportunity to catch him by his hair with one hand and pull his head down; with his free hand, he guides his cock between Sebastian's lips.

“We don't have all day, Choir Boy,” he says, beginning to laugh. His chuckle cuts off abruptly when Sebastian begins to work—old memories flickering back to him, reminders of long-forgotten nights. Varric is aroused already (more than Sebastian had dared to dream, enough to make his heart jump at the thought that Varric has been watching him all night with the same lust— _blessed are those_ —), and Sebastian eagerly takes him into his mouth, savoring the soft moan he earns from Varric in return. He runs his tongue down the length of his shaft, licking and lapping and sucking, feeling Varric tighten beneath him. Once, this was a talent that Sebastian had prided himself upon; Varric's reaction suggests that he has not quite forgotten those skills quite yet. Varric's hand is firm in his hair, tightening with every sharp gasp, every sweet little noise of desperate want and longing.

“You make a pretty picture like this, Choir Boy,” Varric pants, his voice strained but just as rich as ever, sending a rush of lightning down Sebastian's spine. “On your knees looking up at me with those big baby blues, your pupils blown, eyelashes fluttering every time I move. And all that auburn hair, long enough to for me to really wrap my fingers in it, to tug and watch you moan around my cock—and—ah, _fuck,_ yes, right like that—that's the best part, those lips of yours—you've got a mouth made to get fucked, trying to fit those big bruised lips around me—take me deeper, _unh_ , what a good boy—fuck, _fuck_ —you look beautiful enough to ravage, just a sweet little Chantry boy who needs a—needs a good hard fucking—”

Varric's speech is choppy now and halfway to incoherent, every word punctuated with a grunt or moan, but the stream of his narration continues even as it dissolves into helpless babble. Sebastian is starting to understand just why those books of his are so popular.

“Now,” Varric grunts, and his hand knots in Sebastian's hair tight enough to ache just right, holding him pinned to his cock. He comes with a bone-deep groan and a shudder, hips bucking and back arching. When Sebastian at last pulls away from Varric's softening cock, he licks his lips, eager to swallow the last pearly drop, and Varric moans again at the sight, his eyes flickering shut.

“Was that good?” Sebastian pushes up from between his legs and runs his palm over Varric's chest, parting the gap of his tunic and relishing the rough, damp friction of the hair beneath. He wonders if this is it, if they're done, or if he'll be able to get Varric out of this shirt before too long. The last traces of his chastity have disappeared with his sobriety, and his cock is aching with a desperate need.

“Was it _good?_ ” Varric chuckles, still sounding winded. “No shit, kid. Not bad at all.”

Sebastian scrapes his nails down the dwarf's chest and watches his pupils dilate. Made brave with lust, he finds his voice: “You said...you said I needed a good fucking. You said you'd ravage me.”

Again, Varric manages a laugh that's half a pant. “What, you're looking to get fucked? Haven't had enough of me just yet, huh? I guess I could give you something really good to go confess to that creepy belt buckle.”

All Sebastian can manage is a glassy-eyed eager nod. He's never wanted anything more in his entire life.

Varric grins. He catches Sebastian by the wrist and guides his hand down to his cock, already—miraculously—half-hard. “Luckily I've got that infamous dwarven stamina on my side. Gimme a few minutes and I'll be ready to split you open, Choir Boy.”

At this point, Sebastian is barely sure that he can last a few minutes—his cock is painfully hard, throbbing and twitching with every touch of Varric's calloused fingers on his arm and with every sound still coming from the other side of the wall (Maker help him, he'll never be able to face Hawke ever again)—but, well...he's still trying to prove a point, and he's willing to give Varric anything he wants. So he palms Varric's cock, feels him start to stiffen, and groans softly in agonizing anticipation.

Varric shrugs out of his tunic in one easy motion and Sebastian bites down hard on the inside of his cheek at the sight, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood. Maybe it's because he's still more than a little drunk, or maybe it's because he's been waiting for so long, but Maker help him, he's never seen a lovelier sight in all his life than Varric Tethras, bare before him. In the hot, tight room, Varric's chest glistens with a thin film of sweat, highlighting every gorgeous broad inch of hard muscle. The golden mane of his chest hair spills down over the solid outline of his abs, trailing down between his legs. Sebastian wants to crawl on top of him, tangle his fingers in his hair and follow the line all the way down his stomach—but his hand is already on Varric's cock, coaxing him back to readiness, so he keeps his focus there.

When Varric begins to shift underneath him, he takes Sebastian by surprise, moving with a wild, unfamiliar enthusiasm. Before he has time to think, Sebastian finds himself slammed back against the bed, pants jerked down to his feet, shirt all but ripped from his back, those big, heavy hands roaming over every inch of his body—

“Wait,” Sebastian gasps, “wait—”

He pushes away from Varric, off the bed, and scrambles to find the pouch he cast aside earlier, still attached to his belt. He closes his eyes tight, as if he's half-afraid that Andraste is staring up at him from the buckle, and rifles through it blindly. At last, he finds his target. He drops back onto the bed and presents Varric with a small glass jar.

“Andraste's soiled knickers, would you look at that.” Varric laughs, a deep, genuine belly laugh. He unscrews the lid and dips his fingers into the salve. “You just carry this around on an average Tuesday? You're really not as boring as I thought, Choir Boy.”

Sebastian would explain that, actually, he'd just accidentally purchased the wrong product when planning to lubricate the cocking ring of his bow, but, well, that doesn't really sound that much better, and Varric wouldn't believe him anyway. And then Varric's fingers are pressing inside him and Sebastian's capacity for rational thought is suddenly gone.

Varric starts with two fingers, a blind and reckless disregard borne from inexperience, but Sebastian draws the purest of pleasures from the sharp moment of pain; as he begins to loosen, he grinds back against Varric's hand, desperate for every bit of friction he can get. Varric pumps and pushes, winning sharp little gasps and moans with each thrust, until Sebastian feels stretched wide open.

“Please, please, _please_ —,” he begs, and at that, Varric obeys. When he pulls out, there is a long moment where Sebastian is agonizingly empty—long enough for Varric to dip back into the jar and then set it on the end table—and then he lets out a long, shuddering groan as Varric presses against his entrance.

“Alright, Choir Boy,” Varric grunts, “ready to be desecrated?”

When Sebastian stammers out something incoherent and affirmative, Varric presses into him—slowly at first, one careful inch. But he is not a patient man, and he finishes in a sudden painful, glorious thrust, his hips crashing into Sebastian. His fingers dig into Sebastian's hips, the heat of his fingertips contrasting with the aching cold metal of his rings; Sebastian tangles his hands in the messy bedsheet and tries to stifle his cries.

Varric starts slowly, almost uncertainly, sending a ripple of need through Sebastian with every slow drag of his cock—until Sebastian can't stand it any longer.

“Please, harder, faster—”

Varric obeys with a gasping laugh. “You filthy fuckin' sinner! If Andraste could see you now—unh, has anyone ever told you what a bad boy you are?”

“Tell me,” Sebastian begs, and Varric does—exquisite descriptions of how badly he needs to be fucked and punished mingling with the voice in his mind— _blessed are those who—blessed—bless—_

Sebastian arches up against him and finds himself fighting to silence another cry when Varric shoves him back hard against the bed. His sharp, keening moans mingle with Varric's grunts and gasps, filling the room with the primal chorus of bodies moving in perfect sync.

It's been years—too many years—since Sebastian has been touched by any hand other than his own. When Varric's hand at last slides around his waist and closes over his cock, sliding roughly down his length, Sebastian comes mere seconds later in a wild burst of flashing stars and brilliant lightning that leaves him gasping for air. Varric comes with him, emptying himself inside of Sebastian with one final jerking slam of his hips. When Varric pulls away, Sebastian moves with one last burst of adrenaline and catches his hand. He licks his own cum off Varric's fingers, watching Varric's eyes dilate with every soft touch of his tongue.

“Atta boy,” Varric mumbles, watching him with half-lidded eyes. “You did good.”

That reassurance is all Sebastian needs. He collapses into a shivering heap.

“Hey, c'mere,” Varric sighs. His voice is soft again, no longer harsh and commanding; Sebastian rolls over to gaze up silently at him through glassy, giddy eyes. Varric leans down at, at last, presses his lips to Sebastian's. His stubble scrapes across Sebastian's chin; his lips are surprisingly soft, and the touch is startlingly tender. “It's been a long time comin', huh? Don't worry. You can stay here if you want. Just don't let Isabela catch you on the way out in the morning—we'll never live it down.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian breathes. _For everything_.

Varric kisses him again and then tousles his hair. “Sure thing, Choir Boy. Any time.”

They fall asleep tangled together, arms around each other, Varric's hot breath gentle on his chest. Sebastian dreams of home.

*

“Well?” Isabela asks, looking between the sheaf of papers on the desk and back up at Varric. “What did you think?”

“I, uh...you know, for once in my life, I think I might be lost for words.”

She beams. “That good, huh?”

“I gotta say, I think I might prefer it if you _didn't_ publish this one any time soon.” Varric shrugs, looking surprisingly nonchalant considering the text in front of him. At this point, he doesn't question anything Isabela gives him—he's just grateful there weren't any Qunari involved this time. “If only because it might literally kill Sebastian, and then we'd have to add 'murdering royalty' to the disturbingly-long list of things we've accomplished together.”

“Balls.” Isabela finishes off her drink, and takes a swig of his, ignoring the yelp of protest. “Another brilliant work shot down by my stodgy editor. The life of a tortured genius.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “It's not all bad. I did like that passage about my chest hair. Very poetic. And I admire that you always manage to get yourself laid in your own stories. So, tell me: Is it hard to be so in love with me, Rivaini?”

“Oh, Varric,” she sighs, tossing an arm over his shoulders, “it's absolute agony.”

  



End file.
